Retreading the amphitheater steps
To my accustomed contemplative space
To see myself again in the eyes of the Fates,
Who spin and measure and snip.
Instead of Oedipus and Iocasta,
Arthur Miller is the Muse whose Loman
Must my aging sense abuse and disabuse
If I but can.
Erikson sits here beside me, taking me along
The 8 staged declension or ascension of aging
And looks me square and says, "Integrity or Despair?"
While I am sitting here.
My students, nearing 20 years of age
See Hoffman's Loman strut and rage his memories,
Bemused they turn away as if to say this dreaming
Is for older men.
I am an older man, and I cannot deny the meaning
Of old Miller's play packs much more punch
Today than just a decade back, but I am driven
Once again to this assay.
I know the old hymn, "O When I Come to the End
Of My Journey," and I long to die in peace,
Hands folded in an easy rest, content in every thought,
At seeing God's own Hand.
In His integrity, I'll stand.
Love Death of a Salesman, but it cuts like a scalpel. Nihilism without Christ is inevitable.
